Airplanes
by tessaless
Summary: Chuck tells him in a moment of drunken stupor nearly ten years later just how well he can remember the smile that lit up Nate’s face when he surprised him that night.


A/N: Oh hey, long time no... do this. I missed the inside of your head, Nate!

* * *

The first time Chuck Bass flew commercial was on Nate's twelfth birthday. Nate was playing Pokémon underneath his bed, flat on his stomach and flashlight in hand.

It was Nate's twelfth birthday, and he was going to go out for steak with his dad, when he got home from work. He was even going to order a glass of wine, because, twelve is almost thirteen, and thirteen is almost an adult. And adults drink wine. That is, whenever his dad finally got done working.

Serena had promised to come over, though. She said she had a present. Right after she was done doing whatever it was she was doing with Georgie. Except that was at noon, and according to Nate's shiny new cell phone, it was almost ten-thirty. At night.

Blair was stalking him again, which was weird. She called him all the time with nothing to say, and she was always touching his hair and his arm when they hung out. Nate really wished she'd stop. So anyways that was why he was ignoring her seventeen proposals to have a party. Or whatever it was she wanted to do. He kind of wished there was a cake, though. That's mostly the point of birthdays, anyways, right?

Nate clamped a hand over the speaker on his Gameboy when he heard footsteps coming up the spiral stairs. "Dad?" he called. "Are you done with work?" Purple socks appeared in the crack between the blankets and the floor. Nate squinted in the darkness. Feet too small to belong to his father.

Chuck poked his face down, underneath the bedding ruffle. "Is there a cake?" he asked. Nate blinked.

"I thought you were in China with Bart," he said. (They had always called him "Bart." Even back then.) Chuck shimmied underneath the bed, elbows knocking against Nate's as he wedged himself in.

"I was," Chuck explained. "But it's your birthday, Nathaniel. And twelve is almost thirteen, which is almost an adult." Nate grinned.

"That's what my dad said!" he told Chuck. "He said I could have wine at dinner tonight." Chuck clapped his hand on Nate's left shoulder.

"And did you?" he asked. Nate shut off his Gameboy.

"We're going when he gets home from work," he explained.

"Oh," Chuck said, and promptly sneezed violently. "What are you doing underneath your bed?" Nate shrugged.

"What are _you _doing underneath my bed?" he asked. "How did you get here anyways?"

"I flew." Nate tried to sit up, but smashed his head into the underside of his mattress instead.

"All the way from China?" he asked. Nate kneaded his knuckles violently into his aching skull.

"Yeah," Chuck said. "I went from an airport."

"Really? I thought you said that airports were full of diseases." Chuck inspected his cuticles.

"They are," he said. "But it's your birthday." Nate grinned.

"You took a public airplane? Really?" Chuck rolled out from underneath Nate's bed, and reached his hand back to pull Nate out behind him. Nate wrinkled his nose. "How was it?" he asked. Chuck shrugged, dusting off his pale yellow slacks.

"It was gross," Chuck said. He sighed dramatically. "Seriously." He knitted his eyebrows together in disgust. Nate nodded.

"Yeah," he offered. "I don't like normal airplanes, much less public ones." Chuck rearranged his bangs, pushing them towards his left ear.

"Hey," he said. "It's your birthday. It was worth it." Nate laughed, dropping his flashlight onto the bed.

"Thanks, man," he said. Chuck raised an eyebrow.

"Do you really not have a cake?" he asked. "Fuck this. Come on, let's go get one."

"Can it be chocolate?" Nate rubbed his still pounding head again. "But not frosting, I don't like frosting."

"I know you don't," Chuck said. "And it's your birthday. You can have whatever kind of cake you want, Nathaniel." Nate grinned, braces flashing in the dim hallway lighting.

Chuck tells him in a moment of drunken stupor nearly ten years later just how well he can remember the smile that lit up Nate's face when he surprised him that night.

* * *

The second time Chuck Bass flew commercial, he and Nate flew together. "Let's get away this weekend," he whispered in Nate's ear on a cold Friday morning in the St. Jude's courtyard.

"Where would we go?" Nate asked, disentangling himself from the picnic table where he sat. Chuck raised a shoulder, and lowered it.

"I don't even _care_," he drawled. (Only Chuck Bass could get away with drawling. Nate always knew he'd sound more or less retarded if he ever tried.)

"Um," Nate said, "I think we have to come back by Monday, though. My mom might notice if I don't show up at school."

"Huh," Chuck said. "I think Bart might be using the jet."

Which is how they ended up buckled in the first class of Flight 2034 six hours later, with direct service from New York to Puerto Vallarta. Nate fiddled with the armrest as Chuck rubbed his temples and breathed in through his scarf. The flight attendant refused to serve them liquor. It all would have worked out alright, though, if the main engine hadn't sucked in a bird and shorted out halfway through the flight.

"Ah." The captain's voice crackled through the intercom into the cabin. "There seems to be a slight problem with one of our engines." Chuck swore violently. "Hold tight, and keep calm." Chuck swore again. Nate raised his glass of ginger ale in salute.

"Where are we, again?" Nate asked, as they were ushered through a nondescript airport after the least dramatic emergency landing known to man. Chuck straightened his tie.

"Arkansas," he said. Nate shrugged.

"Which is… where again?" he asked. Chuck shrugged as well. Nate smiled. "Come on," he said, "Let's go shove our way to the front so that we can go home first."

They would go back on the first direct flight to La Guardia, in nine hours time. So Chuck and Nate sat together on the ground, in the corner and on the least disgusting patch of carpet to be found.

"Nine hours?" Nate asked. "What are we supposed to do for _nine_ hours?" Chuck made a face like he'd accidentally swallowed an entire lemon.

"I can't believe that no one in this dump knows who my father is," he said.

"Maybe we should sue them," Nate offered, following the pattern on the carpet with the edge of his shoe. Chuck waved a hand dismissively.

"Nah," he said. "I don't want Bart to know I skipped town." He stood up, offering Nate his hand. "Let's go get drunk."

* * *

The third time Chuck Bass flies commercial, he doesn't tell Nate where he's going, just that he is. And Blair shows up at Nate's door, cheeks flushed and wilted bouquet of roses in hand.

"Do you know where Chuck is?" she asks, in half a whisper. He takes the flowers from her, gently, and leads her back into the kitchen where he places them in a vase.

"I don't, no," Nate says, adding water to the arrangement, sad and pathetic on the empty countertop. "He went to the airport, I guess." Blair paces the room, forwards and backwards and forwards again.

"Why?" she asks, like going to the airport is the most bizarre thing one could possibly do. Nate inhales carefully.

"Well," he explains, the air hissing out between his teeth, "Bart left the jet to Lily. She took it to Boston, I think." Blair stops pacing.

"So where did he go?" she demands, biting on the corner of her pinkie nail.

"I don't know," Nate repeats, sitting down on one of the tall stools perched behind the counter. "What happened?" He knew already. Chuck and Blair and their on-again, off-again tumultuous affair had only intensified since Bart, well, kicked it.

"I messed up," Blair tells Nate. "I need to tell him I'm sorry." Nate spins the stool around, twice.

"Oh," he says, simply. He glances over at Blair, her shiny black heels, her bright red headband and silky dress. Blair always dressed like the world might disappear if she didn't wear the same color tights and earrings.

"And," she adds, "He left the roses in the elevator. On the ground." So, dutifully, Nate calls Chuck, and together, they dutifully leave him a message. Blair collapses onto the stool next to Nate. "When do you think he'll come back?" she asks.

They sit together in silence for awhile before Nate opens his mouth. "I wouldn't worry too much," he says. "I mean, he's Chuck Bass. He'll get it right in the end."

"Kind of like Bart did?" Blair asks, staring at him with sleepless eyes, rimmed and hollow. So Nate does the only thing he can think of. He reaches across the counter, grabs her hand out from her lap, and squeezes it, hard.

* * *

A/N: Okay now go tell me how awesome you think that was.


End file.
